(by Edward Zeusgany, copyright 2001, all rights reserved)

When I was eleven, I had a crush on a boy in my class in school. His name was Carey, and he was very handsome. We used to wrestle in the playground during recess. He was an excellent athlete where I was but average, so he got the best holds most of the time. He had a penchant for “headlocks,” holding tight and squeezing my head. Because I was more tenacious and also stronger, I could always get out of them.

On those occasions when I got him in a good hold and he couldn’t break free, he would touch me between the legs and I would let go. He did not strike me in the groin or grab, just a touch. The kind that would be considered a grope, if done during an amorous embrace. There was a distinct contrast between the gentleness of this touch and the roughness of the wrestling. I loved the former and was willing to put up with the latter, in order to have this closeness with him.

One day after school, I went to his house looking for him. He was there alone.

“Come up to my room, Ronnie,” he suggested.

We began to wrestle, though not as roughly as in the playground, where there were other kids around. He got me in a headlock, but I got away. I seized his wrist and brought it up behind his back in a “hammerlock,” our bodies were brought together, his back to my front. I could feel his backside pressing against me. Then he reached behind himself and touched me, the way he usually did. But this time I did not let go. Instead, I brought my right hand around him and touched his chest. He squeezed my genitals a little, I let go of his wrist, but quickly brought my left hand around his body holding him firmly against me.

“Let’s wrestle on the bed,” I proposed.

“We’ll have to take our shoes off,” he commented.

I lay down on my back, “See if you can keep me down,” I told him. He grabbed both of my wrists and straddled my waist with his knees. I twisted and was about to break free when he lay his whole body on top of mine to try to hold me down. I stopped squirming and we lay there quietly for a while. His cheek felt cool against mine. I closed my eyes and let my breathing slow down, my muscles relax. After a while, he released my wrists and I encircled him with my arms, not a hold, but a hug. We rolled over, so that I was on top. He put his hands on my waist and started pulling out my shirt.

“We should wrestle in our under shorts, like they do on TV,” he recommended.

It wasn’t long before he had his hand inside my briefs. We were lying on our sides spoon fashion, I was in the front position. His other arm was underneath me. His fingers toyed with my penis and he moved the foreskin back and forth, in slow repeated movements. I was a little surprised, because I thought I was the only one who knew to do this, being an only child and having discovered that wondrous activity on my own, by accident.

I was still not used to the effect, the involuntary spasms that shook my body when the orgasm struck. The first time I had done it, I had been afraid that I had hurt myself in some way. A few days later, when there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me, I tried it again. Gradually, I came to understand that it did no damage and that the slight depression I usually felt right afterward, would quickly pass. So I was not afraid of Carey making it happen. A few months after my wrestling match with him, when the white stuff came out for the first time, I again experienced a period of apprehension.

So I lay there and enjoyed Carey playing with me. He was bumping his dick against me as he stroked. Then it hit. Carey kept stroking until my quivering stopped. Silently, we reversed positions.

I loved touching his body and having him touch me. I caressed his bottom first. I wanted, before I was finished, to have explored his entire body, that no part of him would have escaped my hands. But I sensed that he was a little impatient, so I did not linger as much as I would have liked.

*****

It was only a fluke that Carey was home alone that day. Usually his mother was there, and his older brother. The two boys never got another chance to be together the way they wanted to be. A year later, Carey’s father was transferred to another part of the country.

Ronnie never knew that Carey became a distinguished ballet dancer, giving considerable disappointment to his father and brother, who had favored a major league baseball career for him. Carey had been an outstanding player through high school.

Carey lived most of his life in the San Francisco area. For many years his lover was a short, slight man, who was a professor of English at Stanford.

Ronnie became a professor of education at Salem State College, located in his home town. Had he been interested in the arts, he would have learned about the career of his old playmate.

This story is true, up to the point of my (Ronnie’s) finding “Carey” (not his real name, of course) at home alone. Although we fooled around at recess; we did not seek each other out after school, even though he lived only a short distance from my home. I was not well liked by my classmates, being too smart, too serious, too small, too slow in games. He probably did not wish to be closely associated with me, but possibly he was afraid of what might happen between us, if we spent time together.

I did, one time, try to make contact with him. On that late winter afternoon, the fifth grade boys went to the junior high school gym for basketball. Our school did not have a gymnasium. My father was the boys’ coach for junior high school sports and also was in charge of the elementary school basketball program.

At the end of the session, when my father was checking to see that everything was in proper order, he found a pair of underpants that one of the kids had left. I told him that I thought the shorts might belong to “Carey,” I offered to take them over to his house.

When I got there, it was his mother who came to the door. I told her why I had come and she called up to “Carey.” She did not invite me to enter the house, so I was left standing there on the back porch. It was really frigid that day and the sun was setting. He did not even come down to see me. He just told her that the shorts were not his.

It was a lonely and bitter cold walk back to my house. The whole world seemed empty and forlorn. I can still remember how the snow squeaked with each step I took, and the great piles of it thrown up over the sidewalks. But I was soon distracted from my sorrow by my mother’s meat loaf, baked potato, butternut squash, and onions boiled in butter.

The story is also true, in that what happened, after I found “Carey” home alone, is what I would have like to have done with him, that or some variation. I think of these variations when I return in my mind to that time. I am no longer turned on by ten year olds (“Carey” was a few months younger than I), so it is only when, in my imagination, I am again eleven that I can enjoy the memory.

A few years later, “Carey’s” family did move away from Marblehead. The last section of the story is fabricated. I never did hear anything more about him.